He was sawing away when he heard a dog barking, and looked
up to see Honoria coming along the path with George's terrier
frisking at her heels.
She halted outside the lych-gate, and Taffy, vain of his new clothes,
drew himself up and nodded.
"Good-morning," said Honoria. "I'm not allowed to speak to you and
I'm not going to, after this." She swooped on the puppy and held
him. "See what George brought home from Plymouth for me. Isn't he
a beauty?"
Held so, by the scruff of his neck, he was not a beauty. Taffy had
it on the tip of his tongue to tell her about the collar. He wished
he had brought it.
"I wonder," she went on pensively, "your mother had the heart to
dress you out in that style. But I suppose now you'll be growing up
into quite a common boy."
Taffy decided to say nothing about the collar. "I like the clothes,"
he declared defiantly.
"Then you can't have the common instincts of a gentleman. Well,
good-bye! Grandfather has salvation all right this time; he said
he'd put the stick about me if I dared to speak to you."
"He won't know."
"Won't know? Why I shall tell him, of course, when I get back."
"But--but he _mustn't_ beat you!"
She eyed him for a moment or two in silence. "Mustn't he? I advise
you to go and tell him." She walked away slowly, whistling; but
by-and-by broke into a run and was gone, the puppy scampering behind
her.
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